Chapter Text
Hermione's hand was trembling. Straightening her back to disguise her untimely weakness, she sought comfort from the pressure of her tightly laced stays.
They were not hers, strictly speaking – none of the finery she wore belonged to her. The Malfoys had purchased her bride clothes just like they had purchased her, and that was why her hand was shaking slightly as she placed it on Draco's arm. They were to be wed today, surrounded by the surviving Blacks, Malfoys, and those of Hermione's friends who forgave her alliance with the enemy.
This was not what she had expected Victory to be like.
Kneeling before the altar, Hermione suppressed a wild laugh threatening to burst out, wondering what it would have been like if Voldemort had triumphed and Harry lost.
It was not remotely funny; she would not be here to make the jest had he who was both more and less than a man won the battle Harry Potter had been fighting for most of his life.
Hermione had fought on Harry’s side ever since she had stepped into the Wizarding World at the tender age of eleven, for amongst those who wielded magic, women took part in battles.
It seemed eminently sensible to her. Those who do not live by the sword can still be killed by it. If one could fight by using a wand, so much more powerful than a sword, why would one stand idly by?
Harry and Hermione had not been offered a choice in the matter, but many of their friends could have waited out the war at home instead. Some of their erstwhile friends, like Penelope Clearwater, had indeed done so.
A year after the war, Hermione could no longer muster enough zeal to condemn Penelope's choice. She had seen what remained of Hogwarts after the final battle – nobody in their right mind would choose to go through that if they did not have to, for one reason or other.
Lunatics like Bellatrix Lestrange, fortunately departed from this world, did not count.
At this very moment, Hermione could have been sitting in the comfortable parlour of the woman who had brought down Bellatrix Lestrange, surrounded by Weasleys of varying size.
The fact that she had chosen to ally herself to the Malfoys instead had been met with cold disapproval. Only Ron had labelled it a betrayal. It was understandable under the circumstances – she was still hoping the great chess strategist would apply his mind to the real world once his injured feelings had abated somewhat.
Perhaps in another seventy years, or so.
The path that had brought her before the finely wrought altar in St. James the Less in Diagon Alley seemed preposterous to Hermione too. In another life, she would have been as curious an onlooker as the Apostles jostling to get to the front of the painting adorning the church, to get a better look at the wedding ceremony.
“Were you not Muggle-born, our families would discuss the marriage contracts. As is proper.” For someone who had been roundly defeated, the younger Malfoy sneered very creditably.
“I do not recall agreeing to your proposal.”
“Again, under normal circumstances that would not be required.”
After receiving his initial letter, Hermione had agreed to meet him in the Hogwarts formal gardens out of sheer curiosity. A neutral venue had seemed wise.
As it was, having agreed to the encounter at all seemed unwise in the extreme.
“In which case, you would not be consulted either,” she pointed out. “If there is anything we can agree upon, surely it is that we earned the right to be masters of our own destinies.”
“Very glib, Granger. I forget you spent seven years providing the voice of sanity between Potter and Weasley.” He tugged at his expensive robes; they kept snagging on the herbaceous border.
“You are remarkably unobservant if you believe that is how it went. Although that has already been established, has it not?” She took great pleasure in using her sweetest tones.
“What do you mean by that?” The way he raised a single eyebrow unnerved her until she realised why it sat so awkwardly on his pointy face – he had copied it from Severus Snape, of course, but did not possess the gravitas that went with it.
“If it is truly beyond your understanding, I see no benefit to continuing this conversation.” Hermione had been through altogether too much to play any of his games; perhaps it showed on her face because Malfoy chose a different tack.
“I apologise. I find myself returning to our previous form of conversation out of habit. I shall make a determined effort not to revert to the level of fifth-year Potions class when we speak.“ He had picked up the habit of speaking like Snape, too: more formal when challenged.
“Exchanging insults, you mean? Good.” Hermione had no such tendencies – she would never admit it to Malfoy, but she would indeed have been greeted with incomprehension by Harry and Ron if she flung five-syllable words at them.
For all of his faults, no one could accuse Ron of having swallowed a dictionary.
“That being established, why don't you explain why you think I will agree to this daft scheme of yours?” she asked. “No matter what you may have been told, I didn't hit my head in the battle.” She hid her smile as he sighed heavily.
“I did not think that the concept of an arrangement to our mutual benefit would be so difficult for you to grasp. Not for the cleverest witch of our age, or whatever they used to call you.”
“I did not think that's what they called me that in the Slytherin common room.” Hermione could not resist.
Malfoy must have acquired some maturity at last, because he did not rise to the bait. “Your family are Muggles, of modest means. If you choose to return to them you will not be able to practice magic. All of Hogwarts knows you rejected Weasley's marriage proposal – I did not think he had it in him to produce actual fireballs. What will you do – teach?”
Hogwarts teachers famously received no stipends from the school – teaching was for gentlemen (and, surprisingly, gentlewomen). Hermione's family may be comfortably established – to Malfoy, anyone who did not own a palace was obviously a pauper – but the income from her father's practice would not suffice to support her in a separate establishment. She may be able to hide from her surviving enemies living like a Muggle with her parents indefinitely, but the prospect made any hope she felt for the future wither and die.
No Muggle would visit a surgeon if there were rumours his daughter was a witch. The older generation still remembered the time before the Statute of Secrecy – they knew the texture and smell of magic, the tiny tells of the world that had been hidden.
To escape detection, she would have to suppress most of what made her Hermione Granger – everything of importance that had occurred in the past ten years.
“As it is imperative that you marry, would it not be wiser to choose a rich man than a poor one?” Malfoy asked, smirk entirely absent as he offered her a way to stay where she belonged. “As Mrs Malfoy, you would wield a certain amount of influence,” he added, to sweeten the pill.
“As Mrs Hermione Malfoy, you mean. Mrs Narcissa Malfoy is not of the same consequence as she once was.” She had expected him to bridle at that; instead, he mistook her statement for agreement.
“Exactly. Which is why we find ourselves in need of a new branch on the family tree to restore the family name.” It came out with practised ease – the Malfoys must have discussed it at length between themselves before approaching her.
“New blood, as it were.” Hermione could not have stopped herself for a thousand Galleons.
The expression on his face was worth it.
Eventually, she agreed to his preposterous proposition. She had ridden a dragon before her twentieth birthday – marriage to Draco Malfoy could hardly compete. The advantages were too tempting to decline even though they came with a spineless husband attached. Nevertheless, for all his gormlessness, she made sure the marriage articles made her potential early demise a painful event for her new husband.
Being reckless was one thing; one did not need to be stupid, besides.